"XZZCCCZXZi 


Rudyard  Kipling 

with 

The  British  Fleet 


FOR  THE 


EVENING    AND   SUNDAY 
EIGHTY  SUMMER  STREET. 

BOSTON,  MASS. 


-^••••^''-'••^•^^••^ 


Complimentary    Reprint   from   the    Boston   American 
"THE  FRINGES  OF  THE  FLEET" 
Copyright,    1915,  by  Rudyard  Kipling 


IN  Lowestoft  a  boat  was 
Mark  well  what  I  do  say! 
And  she  was  built  for  the  herring 
trade, 
But  she  has  gone  a  rovin',  a  rovin',  a 

rovin' 

The  Lord  knows  where! 
They  gave  her  government  coal  to  burn, 
And  a  Q.-P.  gun  at  bow  and  stern, 
And  sent  her  out  a  rovin',  a  rovin',  a  rovin'. 
Her  skipper  was  mate  of  a  bucko  ship 
Which  always  killed  one  man  per  trip, 
So  he  is  used  to  rovin',  rovin',  rovin'. 
Her  mate  was  skipper  of  a  chapel  in  Wales, 
And  so  he  fights  in  topper  and  tails, 
Religi-ous  tho'  a  rovin',  a  rovin',  a  rovin'. 

Her  engineer  is  fifty-eight, 

So  HE'S  prepared  to  meet  his  fate, 

Which  ain't  unlikely  rovin',  rovin',  rovin'. 

Her  leading  stoker's  seventeen, 

So    HE    don't   know   what   the   judgments 

mean, 

Unless  he  cops  'em  rovin',  rovin',  rovin'. 
Her  cook,  he  strayed  from  the  Lost  Dogs' 

Home, 

Mark  well  what  I  do  say! 
And  I'm  sorry  for  Fritz  when  they-all  come 
A  rovin',  a  rovin',  a  roarin'  and  a  rovin', 
'Round  the  North  Sea  rovin' 
The  Lord  knows  where! 


,     V 


The  Trawler  Fleet  as  Mighty 

Hunter  of  Mines  and 

Submarines 


HE  navy  is  very  old  and  very  wise. 
Much  of  her  wisdom  is  on  record 
and  available  for  reference;  but 
more  of  it  works  in  the  uncon- 
scious blood  of  those  who  serve  her. 
She  has  a  thousand  years  of  ex- 
perience and  can  find  a  precedent 
or  a  parallel  for  any  situation  that  the  force 
of  the  weather  or  the  malice  of  the  King's  ene- 
mies may  bring  about. 

The  main  principles  of  sea  warfare  hold 
good  throughout  all  ages,  and,  as  far  as  the 
navy  has  been  allowed  to  put  out  her  strength, 
these  principles  have  been  applied  over  all  the 
seas  of  all  the  world.  In  matters  of  detail  the 
navy,  to  whom  all  days  are  alike,  has  simply 
returned  to  the  practise  and  resurrected  the 
spirit  of  old  days. 

In  the  last  French  wars,  a  merchant  sailing 
out  of  a  channel  port  might  in  a  few  hours  find 
himself  laid  by  the  heels  and  under  way  for  a 
French  prison.  His  Majesty's  ships  of  the 
line,  and  even  the  big  frigates,  took  very  little 
part  in  policing  the  waters  for  him,  unless  he 
were  in  convoy.  The  sloops,  cutters,  gun-brigs 
and  local  craft  of  all  kinds  were  supposed  to 
look  after  that,  while  the  line  was  busy  else- 
where. 

The  Changes  Wrought  in  a  Century's  Flight. 

So  the  merchants  passed  resolutions  against 
the  inadequate  protection  afforded  to  the  trade, 


Q), 


ro 


and  the  narrow  seas  were  full  of  single  ship 
actions ;  mail  packets,  West  Country  brigs  and 
fat  East  Indiamen  fighting  for  their  own  hulls 
and  cargo  anything  that  the  watchful  French 
ports  sent  against  them,  while  the  sloops  and 
cutters  bore  a  hand  if  they  happened  to  be 
within  reach. 

It  was  a  brutal  age,  ministered  to  by  rough- 
handed  men;  and  we  had  put  it  a  hundred  de- 
cent years  behind  us  when — it  all  comes  back 
again! 

To-day  there  are  no  prisons  for  the  crews 
of  merchantmen,  but  they  can  go  to  the  bottom 
by  mine  and  torpedo  even  more  quickly  than 
their  ancestors  were  run  into  Le  Havre.  The 
submarine  takes  the  place  of  the  privateer; 
the  line,  as  in  the  old  days,  is  occupied  bom- 
barding and  blockading  elsewhere,  but  the  sea- 
borne traffic  must  continue,  and  that  is  being 
looked  after  by  the  lineal  descendants  of  the 
crews  of  the  long  extinct  cutters  and  sloops 
and  gun-brigs.  The  hour  struck,  and  they  re- 
appeared to  the  tune  of  fifty  thousand  men  in 
more  than  two  thousand  ships,  of  which  I  have 
seen  a  few  hundred. 

Words  of  command  may  have  changed  a  lit- 
tle; the  tools  are  certainly  more  complex,  but 
the  spirit  of  the  new  men  who  come  to  the  old 
jobs  is  utterly  unchanged.  It  is  the  same  fierce, 
hard-living,  heavy-handed,  very  cunning  ser- 
vice out  of  which  the  navy  as  we  know  it  to- 
day was  born. 

Trawler  Fleet  Gets  Blessings  of  Traffic. 

It  is  called  indifferently  the  Trawler  or 
Auxiliary  Fleet.  It  is  chiefly  composed  of  fish- 
ermen, but  it  takes  everyone  who  may  have 
maritime  tastes — from  retired  admirals  to  the 
son  of  the  sea  cook.  It  exists  for  the  benefit 
of  the  traffic  and  the  annoyance  of  the  enemy. 


Its  doings  are  recorded  by  flags  stuck  into 
charts;  its  casualties  are  buried  in  obscure 
corners  of  the  newspapers. 

The  Grand  Fleet  knows  it  slightly;  the  rest- 
less light  cruisers  who  chaperon  it  from  the 
back-ground  are  more  intimate ;  the  destroyers 
working  off  unlighted  coasts  over  unmarked 
shoals  come,  as  you  might  say,  in  direct  contact 
with  it;  the  submarine  alternately  praises  and 
— since  one  periscope  is  very  like  another — 
curses  its  activities,  but  the  steady  procession 
of  traffic  in  home  waters,  liner  and  tramp,  six 
every  sixty  minutes,  blesses  it  altogether. 

Since  this  most  Christian  war  includes  lay- 
ing mines  in  the  fairways  of  traffic,  and  since 
these  mines  may  be  laid  at  any  time  by  Ger- 
man submarines  especially  built  for  the  work, 
or  by  neutral  ships,  all  fairways  must  be 
swept  continuously  day  and  night. 

When  a  nest  of  mines  is  reported,  traffic 
must  be  hung  up  or  deviated  till  they  are  all 
cleared  out.  When  traffic  comes  up  Channel 
it  must  be  examined  for  contraband  and — 
other  things;  and  the  examining  tugs  lie  out 
in  a  blaze  of  lights  to  remind  ships  of  this. 

Months  ago,  when  the  war  was  young,  the 
tugs  did  not  know  what  to  look  for  specially. 
Now  they  do.  All  this  mine  searching  and 
reporting  and  sweeping,  plus  the  direction  and 
examination  of  the  traffic,  plus  the  laying  of 
our  own  ever-shifting  mine  fields,  is  part  of 
the  Trawler  Fleet's  work,  because  the  navy-as- 
we-know-it  is  busy  elsewhere. 

Hunts  Submarine  with  Zeal  and  Joy. 

And  there  is  always  the  enemy  submarine 
with  a  price  on  her  head,  whom  the  Trawler 
Fleet  hunts  and  traps  with  zeal  and  joy.  Add 
to  this,  that  there  are  boats,  fishing  for  real 
fish,  to  be  protected  in  their  work  at  sea  or 


chased  off  dangerous  areas  where,  because 
they  are  strictly  forbidden  to  go,  they  natural- 
ly repair;  and  you  will  begin  to  get  some  idea 
of  what  the  Trawler  or  Auxiliary  Fleet  does. 

Now,  imagine  the  acreage  of  several  dock 
basins  crammed  gunwale  to  gunwale  with 
brown  and  umber  and  ochre  and  rust-red  steam 
trawlers,  tugs,  harbor  boats  and  yachts,  once 
clean  and  respectable  now  dirty  but  happy. 
Throw  in  fish  steamers,  surprise  packets  of 
unknown  lines  and  indescribable  junks,  sam- 
pans, lorchas,  catamarans  and  general  service 
stink  pontoons,  filled  with  indescribable  ap- 
paratus, manned  by  men,  no  dozen  of  whom 
seem  to  talk  the  same  dialect  or  wear  the  same 
clothes. 

The  mustard-colored  jersey  who  is  clean- 
ing a  six-pounder  on  a  Hull  craft  clips  his 
words  between  his  teeth  and  would  be  happier 
in  Gaelic ;  the  whitish  singlet  and  blue  trousers 
held  up  by  what  is  obviously  his  soldier  broth- 
er's spare  regimental  belt,  is  pure  Lpwesstoft. 
The  complete  blue  serge  and  soot  suit  passing 
a  wire  down  a  hatch  is  Glasgow  as  far  as  you 
can  hear  him,  which  is  a  fair  distance,  because 
he  wants  something  done  to  the  other  end  of 
the  wire;  and  the  flat-faced  boy  who  should 
be  attending  to  it  hails  from  the  remoter  Heb- 
rides and  is  looking  at  a  girl  on  the  dock  edge. 

Mate  of  Tramp  Ship  Becomes  an  Admiral. 

The  bow-legged  man  in  the  ulster  and  green 
worsted  comforter  is  a  warm  Grimsby  skipper, 
worth  several  thousands.  He  and  his  crew, 
who  are  mostly  his  own  relations,  keep  them- 
selves to  themselves  and  grimly  save  their 
money.  The  pirate  with  the  red  beard,  bark- 
ing over  the  rail  at  a  friend  with  gold  ear- 
rings, comes  from  Skye.  The  friend  is  West 
Country. 


The  noticeably  insignificant  man  with  a  soft 
and  deprecating  eye  is  skipper  and  part  owner 
of  the  big,  slashing  Iceland  trawler  on  which 
he  droops  like  a  flower.  She  is  built  on  almost 
transatlantic  lines,  carries  a  little  boat  deck 
aft  with  tremendous  stanchions,  has  a  nose 
cocked  high  against  ice  and  sweeping  seas, 
and  looks  rather  like  a  hawkmoth  at  rest.  The 
small,  sniffing  man  is  reported  to  be  a  "holy 
terror  at  sea." 

The  child  in  the  Pullman  car  uniform  just 
going  ashore  is  a  wireless  operator  aged  nine- 
teen. He  is  attached  to  a  flagship  one  hundred 
and  twenty  feet  long,  under  an  admiral  aged 
twenty-five,  who  was  till  the  other  day  third 
mate  of  a  North  Atlantic  tramp,  but  who  now 
leads  a  squadron  of  six  trawlers  to  hunt  sub- 
marines. 

The  principle  is  simple  enough.  Its  applica- 
tion depends  on  circumstances  and  surround- 
ings. One  type  of  German  submarine  meant  for 
murder  off  the  coasts  may  use  a  winding  and 
rabbit-like  track  between  shoals  where  the 
choice  of  water  is  limited.  Their  career  is 
rarely  long,  but,  while  it  lasts,  moderately  ex- 
citing. 

Others,  told  off  for  deep-sea  assassinations, 
are  attended  to  quite  quietly  and  without  any 
excitement  at  all. 

Others,  again,  work  the  inside  of  the  North 
Sea,  making  no  distinction  between  neutrals 
and  allied  ships.  These  carry  guns  and,  since 
their  work  keeps  them  a  good  deal  on  the  sur- 
face, the  Trawler  Fleet,  as  we  know,  engages 
them  there — the  submarine  firing,  sinking  and 
rising  in  unexpected  quarters;  the  trawler  fir- 
ing, dodging  and  trying  to  ram. 

The  trawlers  are  strongly  built  and  can  stand 
a  great  deal  of  punishment.  Yet,  again,  other 
German  submarines  hang  about  the  skirts 


FT*; 


of  fishing  fleets  and  fire  "into  the  brown"  of 
them.  When  the  war  was  young  this  gave 
splendidly  /'frightful"  results,  but  for  some 
reason  or  other  the  game  is  not  as  popular  as 
it  used  to  be. 

Lastly,  there  are  German  submarines  who 
perish  by  ways  so  curious  and  inexplicable 
that  one  could  almost  credit  the  whispered 
idea  (it  must  come  from  the  Scotch  skippers) 
that  the  ghosts  of  the  women  drowned  letid 
them  to  destruction. 

But  what  form  those  shadows  take — wheth- 
er of  the  "Lusitania"  ladies  or  humbler  steward- 
esses or  hospital  nurses— and  what  lights  or 
sounds  the  thing  fancies  it  sees  or  hears  before 
it  is  blotted  out,  no  man  will  ever  know.  The 
main  thing  is  that  the  work  is  being  done. 
Whether  it  was  necessary  or  politic  to  re- 
awaken by  violence  every  sporting  instinct  of 
a  sea-going  people  is  a  question  which  the 
enemy  may  have  to  consider  later  on. 


The  Fringes  of  the  Fleet 

ii 

D\.WN  off  the  Foreland — the  young 
flood  making, 
Jumbled  and  short  and  steep — 
Black  in  the  hollows  and  bright 
where  it's  breaking — 
Awkward  waters  to  sweep. 
"Mines  reported  in  the  fairway, 
"Warn  all  traffic  and  detain. 
"Send    up    'Unity/    'Claribel/    'Assyrian/ 
'Stormcock'  and  'Golden  Gain.'" 


Noon  off  the  Foreland — the  first  ebb  making, 

Lumpy  and  strong  in  the  bight. 
Boom  after  boom,  and  the  golf-hut  shaking 

And  the  jackdaws  wild  with  fright! 

"Mines  located  in  the  fairway, 

"Boats  now  sweeping  up  the  chain — 
"Trawlers — 'Unity/    'Claribel/    'Assyrian/ 
'Stormcock'  and  'Golden  Gain/" 


Dusk  off  the  Foreland — the  last  light  going, 

And  the  traffic  crowding  through, 
And  five  damned  trawlers  with  their  whis- 
tles blowing 

Heading  the  whole  review. 
"Sweep  completed  in  the  fairway, 
"No  more  mines  remain. 
"Send   back   'Unity/  'Claribel/   'Assyrian/ 
'Stormcock'  and  'Golden  Gain/" 


10 


The   Deadly   Perils  of  the 

"Fishing  Fleet"  that  Guards 

the  British  Coast 


HE  Trawler  Fleet  seems  to  look  on 
mines  as  more  or  less  fair  play, 
but  with  the  torpedo  it  is  other- 
wise. A  Yarmouth  man  lay  on  his 
hatch,  with  his  gear  neatly  stowed 
away  below,  and  told  me  that  an- 
other Yarmouth  boat  had  "gone 
up"  with  all  hands  except  one. 

"  'Twas  a  submarine.  Not  a  mine,"  said  he. 
"They  never  gave  our  boys  no  chance.  Na! 
She  was  a  Yarmouth  boat — we  knew  'em  all. 
They  never  gave  the  boys  no  chance." 

He  was  a  submarine  hunter,  and  he  illus- 
trated by  means  of  matches  placed  at  various 
angles  how  the  blindfold  business  is  conducted. 
"And  then"  he  ended,  "there's  always  what 
HE'LL  do.  You've  got  to  think  that  out  for 
yourself — while  you're  working  above  him — 
same  as  if  'twas  fish." 

Trawler  Fleet's  Aristocracy  of  Guns. 

But  they  all  want  guns.  Those  who  have 
three-pounders  clamor  for  sixes;  sixes  for 
twelves,  and  the  twelve  pound  aristocracy 
dreams  of  four-inchers  on  anti-aircraft  mount- 
ings for  the  benefit  of  roving  Zeppelins. 

They  will  all  get  them  in  time,  and  I  fancy  it 
will  be  long  and  long  ere  they  give  them 
up.  One  mate  announced  that  "a  gun  is  a 
handy  thing  to  have  aboard — always." 

"But  in  peace-time?"  I  said.  "Wouldn't  it 
be  in  the  way?" 


"We're  used  to  'em  now,"  was  the  smiling 
answer.  "Niver  go  to  sea  again  without  a  gun 
— I  wouldn't — if  I  had  my  way.  It  keeps  all 
hands  pleased-like." 

They  talk  about  men  in  the  army  who  will 
never  willingly  go  back  to  civil  life!  What  of 
the  fishermen  who  have  tasted  something  keen- 
er than  salt  water — and  what  of  the  young  third 
and  fourth  mates  who  have  held  independent 
commands  for  nine  months  past? 

An  Elizabethan  World  of  Seamen. 

My  sponsor  and  chaperon  in  this  Elizabethan 
world  of  eighteenth  century  seamen  was  an 
A.  B.  who  had  gone  down  in  the  "Landrail,"  as- 
sisted at  the  Helgoland  fight,  seen  the  "Bliicher" 
sink  and  the  bombs  dropped  on  our  boats  when 
we  tried  to  save  the  drowning  ("whereby,"  as 
he  said,  "these  Germans  died  'gottstrafin' '  their 
own  country  because  we  didn't  wait  to  be 
'strafed'  "),  and  has  now  found  more  peaceful- 
days  in  an  office  ashore. 

He  led  me  across  many  decks  from  craft  to 
craft  to  study  the  various  appliances  that  they 
specialize  in. 

Almost  our  last  was  what  a  North  Country- 
trawler  called  a  "common  sweeper,"  that  is 
to  say,  a  mine  sweeper.  She  was  at  tea  in  her 
shirt  sleeves  and  protested  loudly  that  there 
was  "nothin'  in  sweepinV 

"See  that  wire  rope  ?"  he  said.  "Well,  it  leads 
to  the  ship  which  you're  sweepin'  with.  She 
makes  her  end  fast  and  you  make  yours.  Then 
you  sweep  together  at  whichever  depth  you've 
agreed  upon  between  you  by  means  of  that 
arrangement  there  which  regulates  the  depth. 

"They  give  you  a  glass  sort  o'  thing  for 
keepin'  your  distance  from  the  other  ship,  but 
that's  not  wanted  if  you  know  each  other. 
Well,  then  you  sweep,  as  the  sayin*  is.  There's 


12 


f* 

LJ 


nothin'  in  it.    You  sweep  till  this  wire  rope 
fouls  the  bloomin'  mines. 

"Then  you  go  on  till  they  appear  on  the  sur- 
face, so  to  say,  and  then  explode  them  by  means 
of  firm'  at  'em  with  that  rifle  in  the  galley 
there.  There's  nothin'  in  sweepin'  more  than 
that." 

And  if  You  Hit  a  Mine?  "Why,  You  Go  Ufi." 

"And  if  you  hit  a  mine?"  I  asked. 

"You  go  up — but  you  hadn't  ought  to  hit  'em 
if  you're  careful.  The  thing  is  to  get  hold  of 
the  first  mine  all  right  and  then  you  go  on  to 
the  next  and  so  on,  in  a  way  o*  speakin'." 

"And  you  can  fish,  too,  'tween  times,"  said 
a  voice  from  the  next  boat.  A  man  leaned 
over  and  returned  a  borrowed  mug.  They 
talked  about  fishing — notably  that  once  they 
caught  some  red  mullet  which  the  "common 
sweeper"  and  his  neighbor  both  agreed  was 
"not  natural  in  those  waters." 

But  as  for  sweeping,  it  bored  them  pro- 
foundly to  talk  about  it. 

I  only  learned  later  as  part  of  the  natural 
history  of  mines  that  if  you  rake  the  tri-nitro- 
toluol  (which  is  rather  like  cocoa  dust)  by 
hand  out  of  a  German  mine  you  develop  erup- 
tions and  skin  poisoning.  But  on  the  authority 
of  two  experts  there  is  nothing  in  sweeping. 
Nothing  whatever. 

How  Trawlers  Are  Sent  on  Deadly  Tasks. 

Now  imagine,  not  a  pistol  shot  from  these 
crowded  quays,  a  little  Office  hung  round  with 
charts  that  are  pencilled  and  noted  over  va- 
rious shoals  and  soundings.  There  is  a  mov- 
able list  of  the  boats  at  work,  with  quaint  and 
domestic  names. 

Outside  the  window  lies  the  packed  harbor 
— outside  that,  again,  the  line  of  traffic  up  and 


18 


down — a  stately  cinema-show  of  six  ships  to 
the  hour.  For  the  moment  that  film  sticks. 

A  boat — probably  a  common  sweeper — re- 
ports an  obstruction  in  the  traffic  lane  a  few 
miles  away.  She  has  found  and  exploded  one 
mine.  The  officer  heard  the  dull  boom  before 
the  wireless  report  came  in.  In  all  likelihood 
there  is  a  nest  of  mines  there. 

It  is  possible  that  a  submarine  may  have  got 
in  last  night  between  certain  shoals  and  laid 
them  out.  The  shoals  are  being  shepherded 
in  case  she  is  lying  anywhere,  but  the  boundar- 
ies of  the  newly  discovered  mine  area  must  be 
fixed  and  the  traffic  deviated. 

There  is  a  tramp  outside  with  tugs  in  at- 
tendance. She  has  hit  something  and  is  leak- 
ing badly.  Where  shall  she  go?  The  Office 
gives  her  her  destination.  The  harbor  is  too 
full  for  her  to  settle  down  here.  She  swings 
off  between  faithful  tugs. 

Traffic  Guarded  Like  Railroad  Trains. 

Down  the  coast  some  one  asks  by  wireless  if 
they  shall  hold  up  their  traffic.  It  is  exactly 
like  a  signaller  "offering"  a  train  to  the  next 
block. 

"Yes,"  the  Office  replies.  "Wait  a  while.  If 
it's  what  we  think,  there  will  be  a  little  delay. 
If  it  isn't  what  we  think,  there  will  be  a  little 
longer  delay." 

Meantime,  sweepers  are  nosing  around  the 
suspected  area — "looking  for  cuckoos'  eggs," 
as  a  voice  suggests — and  a  patrol  boat  lathers 
her  way  down  coast  to  catch  and  stop  anything 
that  may  be  on  the  move,  for  skippers  are 
sometimes  rather  stupid. 

Words  begin  to  drop  out  of  the  air  into  the 
chart-hung  Office:  "Six  and  a  half  cables 
south,  fifteen  east"  of  something  or  other. 


"Mark  it  well,  and  tell  them  to  work  up  from 
there,"  is  the  order. 

"Another  mine  exploded!" 

"Yes,  and  we  heard  that,  too,"  says  the  Of- 
fice. "What  about  the  submarine?"  "Eliza- 
beth Huggins  reports" 

Elizabeth's  scandal  must  be  fairly  high  flav- 
ored, for  a  torpedo  boat  of  immoral  aspect 
slings  herself  out  of  the  harbor  and  hastens 
to  share  it.  If  Elizabeth  has  not  spoken  the 
truth,  there  may  be  words  between  the  parties. 

Busy  Hour  for  Quaint  Little  Office. 

A  trawler  skipper  wishes  to  speak  to  the 
Office.  "They"  have  ordered  him  out,  but  his 
boiler,  most  of  it  is  on  the  quay  at  the  present 
time,  and  "Ye'll  remember,  it's  the  same  wi' 
my  foremast  an*  my  port  rigging,  sir." 

The  Office  does  not  precisely  remember,  but 
if  boiler  and  foremast  are  on  the  quay  the  rest 
of  the  ship  had  better  stay  alongside.  The 
skipper  falls  away  relieved.  He  scraped  a 
tramp  a  few  nights  ago  in  a  bit  of  a  sea. 

There  is  a  little  mutter  of  gun-fire  some- 
where across  the  still  water  where  a  fleet  is 
at  work.  A  monitor,  as  broad  as  she  is  long, 
comes  back  from  wherever  the  trouble  is,  slips 
through  the  harbor  mouth,  all  wreathed  with 
signals,  is  received  by  two  motherly  lighters, 
and,  to  all  appearance,  goes  to  sleep  between 
them. 

The  Office  does  not  even  look  up,  for  that  is 
not  in  their  department. 

They  have  found  a  trawler  to  relieve  the 
boilerless  one.  Her  name  is  slipped  into  the 
rack.  The  immoral  torpedo  boat  flounces  back 
to  her  moorings.  Evidently  what  Elizabeth 
Huggins  said  was  not  evidence. 

The  messages  and  replies  begin  again  as  the 
day  closes. 


15 


Picturesque  Departure  of  the  Night  Patrol 

Return  now  to  the  inner  harbor.  At  twi- 
light there  was  a  stir  among  the  packed  craft 
like  the  separation  of  dried  tea  leaves  in  water. 
The  swing  bridge  across  the  basin  shuts 
against  us. 

A  boat  shot  out  of  the  jam,  took  the  narrow 
exit  at  fair  seven  knots  and  rounded  into  the 
outer  harbor  with  all  the  pomp  of  a  flagship — 
which  was  exactly  what  she  was.  Others  fol- 
lowed, breaking  away  from  every  quarter  in 
silence. 

Boat  after  boat  fell  into  line — gears  stowed 
away;  spars  and  buoys  in  order  on  their  clean 
decks;  guns  cast  loose  and  ready;  wheelhouse 
windows  darkened  and  everything  in  order 
for  a  day  or  a  week  or  a  month  out.  There 
was  no  word  anywhere. 

The  interrupted  foot  traffic  stared  at  them 
as  they  slid  past  below.  A  woman  beside  me 
waved  a  hand  to  a  man  on  one  of  them  and  I 
saw  her  face  light  as  he  waved  back. 

The  boat  where  they  had  demonstrated  for 
me  with  matches  was  the  last.  Her  skipper 
hadn't  thought  it  worth  while  to  tell  me  that 
he  was  going  that  evening.  Then  the  line 
straightened  up  and  stood  out  to  sea. 

"You  never  told  me  this  was  going  to  hap- 
pen," I  said  reproachfully  to  the  A.  B. 

"No  more,  I  did,"  said  he.  "It's  the  night 
patrol  going  out.  Fact  is,  I'm  so  used  to  the 
bloomin*  evolution  that  it  never  struck  me  to 
mention  it,  as  you  might  say." 

Next  morning  I  went  to  service  on  board  a 
man-of-war,  and  even  as  we  came  to  the  prayer 
that  the  navy  might  "be  a  safeguard  to  such 
as  pass  on  the  sea  on  their  lawful  occasions," 
I  saw  the  long  procession  of  traffic  resuming 
md  down  the  Channel — si? 


16 


7& 


The  Fringes  of  the  Fleet 


in 


FAREWELL  and  adieu  to  you,  Eng- 
lish ladies, 
Farewell  and  adieu  to  you,  la- 
dies ashore. 
For  we've  received  orders  to  work 

to  the  eastward 

Where  we  hope  in  a  short  time  to  "strafe" 
'em  some  more. 


Well  duck  and  well  dive  like  three  ruddy 

sheldrakes. 
Well  duck  and  we'll  dive  underneath  the 

North  Seas, 

Until  we  strike  something  that  doesn't  ex- 
pect us. 

From  here  to  Cuxhaven  it's  go-as-you- 
please. 


The  first  thing  we  did  was  to  dock  in  a  mine- 
field, 
Which  isn't  the  place  where  repairs  should 

be  done; 
And  there  we  lay  doggo  in  twelve-fathom 

water 
With  tri-nitro-toluol  hogging  our  run* 


17 


The  next  tiling  we  did  we  rose  under  a 

Zeppelin, 
Wiifc  his  shiny  big  belly  half  blocking  the 

sky. 

But  what  under  Heaven  can  you  do  with  six- 
pounders? 

So  we  fired  what  we  had  and  we  bade  him 
good-by. 

We'll  duck  and  we'll  dive  like  three  ruddy 

sheldrakes. 
We'll  duck  and  we'll  dive  underneath  the 

North  Seas, 

Until  we  strike  something  that  doesn't  ex- 
pect us, 

From  here  to  Cuxhaven  it's  go-as-you- 
please. 


18 


The  Daring   Exploits   and 

Thrilling  Experiences  of 

Undersea  Craft 


HE  chief  business  of  the  Auxiliary 
Fleet  is  to  attend  to  commerce. 

The  submarine,  in  her  sphere,  at- 
tends to  the  enemy. 

Like  the  destroyer,  the  subma- 
rine has  created  its  own  type  of  of- 
ficer and  men — with  a  language 
and  traditions  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  ser- 
vice, and  yet  at  heart  unchangingly  of  the  ser- 
vice. Their  business  is  to  run  monstrous  risks 
from  earth,  air  and  water  in  what,  to  be  of 
service,  must  be  of  the  coldest  of  cold  blood. 

The  commander's  is  more  a  one-man  job,  as 
the  crew's  is  more  team  work,  than  any  other 
employment  afloat.  That  is  why  the  relations 
between  submarine  officers  and  men  are  what 
they  are. 

They  play  hourly  for  each  other's  lives  with 
Death,  the  umpire,  always  at  their  elbow  on 
tiptoe  to  give  them  "out." 

There  is  a  stretch  of  water  once  dear  to  ama- 
teur yachtsmen,  now  given  over  to  scouts,  sub- 
marines, destroyers,  and,  of  course,  a  Con- 
tingent of  trawlers. 

We  were  waiting  the  return  of  some  boats 
which  were  now  due  to  report.  A  couple 
surged  up  the  still  river  in  the  afternoon  light 
and  tied  up  beside  their  sisters.  There  climbed 
out  of  them  three  or  four  high-booted,  sunken- 
eyed  pirates  clad  in  sweaters,  under  jackets 
that  a  stoker  of  the  last  generation  would 
have  disowned.  This  was  their  first  chance  to 


19 


compare  notes  at  close  hand.  Together  they 
lamented  the  loss  of  a  Zeppelin — "a  perfect 
mug  of  a  Zepp,"  who  had  come  down  very  low 
and  offered  one  of  them  a  sitting  shot.  "But 
what  can  you  do  with  three-pounders?  I  gave 
him  what  I  had  and  then  he  started  bombing" 

"Mug  of  a  ZeM>"  Escapes. 

"I  know  he  did,"  another  said.  "I  heard  him. 
That's  what  brought  me  down  to  you.  I 
thought  he  had  you  that  time." 

"No,  I  was  forty  feet  under  when  he  hove 
out  the  big  'un.  What  happened  to  you?" 

"My  steering  gear  jammed  just  after  I  went 
under,  and  I  had  to  go  round  in  circles  till  I 
got  it  straightened  out.  But  wasn't  he  a 
mug?" 

"Was  he  the  brute  with  the  patch  on  his  port 
side?"  a  sister  boat  demanded. 

"No.  '  This  fellow  had  just  been  hatched. 
He  was  almost  sitting  on  the  water,  heaving 
bombs  over." 

"And  my  blasted  steering  gear  chose  then  to 
go  wrong,"  the  other  captain  mourned.  "I 
thought  his  last  egg  was  going  to  get  me !" 

Half-an-hour  later  I  was  formally  intro- 
duced to  three  or  four  quite  strange,  quite  im- 
maculate officers,  freshly  shaved  and  a  litttle 
tired  about  the  eyes,  whom  I  thought  I  had  met 
before. 

Meantime  (it  was  on  the  hour  of  the  evening 
drink),  one  of  the  boats  was  still  unaccounted 
for.  No  one  talked  of  her. 

Crews  Use  Language  of  Their  Own. 

They  rather  discussed  motor  cars  and  Admi- 
ralty constructors,  but— it  felt  rather  like  that 
queer  twilight  hour  at  the  front  when  the  hom- 
ing aeroplanes  drop  in.  Presently  a  signaller 
entered : 


20 


"V-42  outside  sir,  wants  to  know  which  chan- 
nel she  shall  use." 

"Oh,  thank  you.  Tell  her  to  take  so-and-so." 
.  .  .  Mine,  I  remember,  was  Vermouth 
and  bitters,  and  later  on  V-42  found  a  soft 
chair  and  joined  the  Committee  of  Instruction. 

Those  next  for  duty,  as  well  as  those  in 
training,  wanted  to  know  what  was  going  on 
and  who  had  shifted  what  to  where,  and  how 
certain  arrangements  had  worked.  They  were 
told  in  language  not  to  be  found  in  any  print- 
able book. 

Questions  and  answers  were  alike  Hebrew  to 
one  listener,  but  he  gathered  that  every  boat 
carried  a  second  in  command — a  strong,  per- 
severing youth,  who  seemed  responsible  for 
everything  that  went  wrong,  from  a  motor 
cylinder  to  a  torpedo.  Then  somebody  touched 
on  the  mercantile  marine  and  its  habits. 

Said  one  philosopher:  "They  can't  be  ex- 
pected to  take  any  more  risks  than  they  do.  I 
wouldn't  if  I  was  a  skipper.  I'd  loose  off  at 
any  blessed  periscope  I  saw." 

"That's  all  very  fine.  You  wait  till  you've 
had  a  patriotic  tramp  trying  to  'strafe*  you  at 
your  own  back  door,"  said  another. 

Some  one  told  a  tale  of  a  man  with  a  voice, 
notable  even  in  a  service  where  men  are  not 
trained  to  whisper. 

He  was  coming  back  empty-handed,  dirty, 
tired  and  best  left  alone. 

From  the  peace  of  the  German  side  he  had 
entered  our  hectic  home  waters,  where  the 
usual  tramp  shelled,  and  by  miraculous  luck 
crumpled  his  periscope. 

Another  man  might  have  dived,  but  Boaner- 
ges kept  on  rising.  Majestic  and  wrathful  he 
rose  personally  through  his  main  hatch  and  at 
2,000  yards  (have  I  said  it  was  a  still  day?) 
addressed  the  tramp.  Even  at  that  distance 


21 


she  gathered  it  was  a  naval  officer  with  a 
grievance,  and  by  the  time  he  ran  alongside 
she  was  in  a  state  of  coma,  but  managed  to 
stammer: 

"Well,  sir,  at  least  you'll  admit  that  our 
shooting  was  pretty  good." 

An  Undersea  "Thunderstorm." 

"And  that,"  said  my  informant,  "put  the  lid 
on!"  Boanerges  went  down  lest  he  should  be 
tempted  to  murder,  and  the  tramp  affirms  she 
heard  him  rumbling  beneath  her  like  an  in- 
verted thunderstorm  for  fifteen  minutes. 

"All  those  tramps  ought  to  be  disarmed  and 
we  ought  to  have  all  their  guns,"  said  a  voice 
out  of  a  corner. 

'What!  Still  worrying  over  your  'mug*?" 
someone  replied. 

"He  was  a  mug,"  went  on  the  man  of  one 
idea.  "If  I'd  had  a  couple  twelves,  even,  I 
could  have  'strafed*  him  proper.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  shall  mutiny,  desert,  or  write  to  the 
First  Sea  Lord  about  it." 

"  'Strafe'  all  Admiralty  constructors  to  begin 
with.  /  could  build  a  better  boat  with  a  four- 
inch  lathe  and  a  sardine  tin  than" — the  speak- 
er named  her  by  letter  and  number. 

"That's  pure  jealousy,"  her  commander  ex- 
plained to  the  company.  "Ever  since  I  in- 
stalled— ahem ! — my  patent  electric  washbasin, 
he's  been  intriguin'  to  get  her.  Why?  We 
know  he  doesn't  wash.  He'd  only  use  the  basin 
to  keep  beer  in." 

However  often  one  meets  it,  as  in  this  war 
one  meets  it  at  every  turn,  one  never  gets  used 
to  the  Holy  Spirit  of  Man  at  his  job. 

Results  Like  Sporting  Score. 

The  "common  sweeper,"  growling  over 
his  mug  of  tea  that  there  was  "nothing  in 


22 


sweepin',"  and  these  idly  lolling  men,  new 
shaved  and  attired,  from  the  gates  of  death 
which  had  let  them  through  for  the  fiftieth 
time,  were  all  of  the  same  fabric — incompre- 
hensible, I  should  imagine,  to  the  enemy. 

And  the  stuff  held  good  throughout  all  the 
world — from  the  Dardanelles  to  the  Baltic, 
where  only  a  little  while  ago  another  batch  of 
submarines  had  slipped  through  and  begun  to 
be  busy. 

I  had  spent  the  afternoon  in  looking  through 
reports  of  submarine  work  in  the  Sea  of  Mar- 
mora. They  read  like  the  diary  of  energetic 
weasels  in  an  over-crowded  chicken-run,  and 
the  results  for  each  boat  were  tabulated  some- 
thing like  a  sporting  score. 

One  came  across  jewels  of  price  set  in  the 
flat  official  phraseology.  For  example,  one 
man,  who  was  describing  some  steps  he  was 
taking  to  remedy  certain  defects,  interjected 
casually : 

"At  this  point  I  had  to  go  under  for  a  little 
as  a  man  in  a  boat  was  trying  to  catch  my 
periscope  with  his  hand." 

No  reference  before  or  after  to  the  said  man 
or  his  fate. 

Again — "Came  across  a  dhow  with  a  Turkish 
skipper.  He  seemed  so  miserable  that  I  let 
him  go." 

And  elsewhere  in  those  waters  a  submarine 
overhauled  a  steamer  full  of  Turkish  passen- 
gers, some  of  whom,  expecting  their  Allies' 
treatment  of  non-combatants,  promptly  leaped 
overboard.  Our  boat  fished  them  out  and  re- 
turned them  in  safety. 

In  another  affair,  which  included  several 
ships  (now  at  the  bottom)  and  one  submarine, 
the  commander  relaxes  enough  to  note  that : 

"The  men  behaved  very  well  under  direct 
and  flanking  fire  from  rifles  at  about  fifteen 


28 


yards."  This  was  not,  I  believe,  the  subma- 
rine that  fought  the  Turkish  cavalry  on  the. 
beach. 

Repairs  Made  Under  Fire. 

And,  in  addition  to  matters  much  more  mar- 
vellous than  any  I  have  hinted  at,  the  reports 
deal  with  repairs  and  shifts  and  contrivances 
carried  through  in  the  face  of  dangers  that 
read  like  the  last  delirium  of  romance. 

One  boat  went  down  the  Straits  and  found 
herself  rather  canted  over  to  one  side.  A  mine 
had  jammed  under  her  forward  diving  plane. 

As  far  as  I  made  out,  she  shook  off  by  stand- 
ing on  her  head  and  jerking  backwards;  or  it 
may  have  been,  for  the  thing  has  occurred 
more  than  once,  she  merely  rose  as  much  as 
she  could,  when  she  could,  and  then  "released  it 
by  hand,"  as  the  official  phrase  goes. 

And  who,  a  few  months  ago,  could  have  in- 
vented, or,  having  invented,  would  have  dared 
to  print  such  a  nightmare  as  this: 

There  was  a  boat  in  the  North  Sea  that  ran 
into  a  net  and  was  caught  by  the  nose.  She 
rose,  still  entangled,  meaning  to  cut  the  thing 
away  on  the  surface.  But  a  Zeppelin  in  wait- 
ing saw  and  bombed  her,  and  she  had  to  go 
down  again  at  once — but  not  too  wildly  or  she 
would  get  herself  more  wrapped  up  than  ever. 

She  went  down  and  by  slow  working  and 
weaving  and  wriggling,  guided  only  by  guesses 
at  the  meaning  of  each  scrape  and  grind  of  the 
net  on  her  blind  forehead,  at  last  she  drew 
clear. 

Then  she  sat  on  the  bottom  and  thought. 

The  question  was  whether  she  should  go 
back  at  once  and  warn  her  confederates 
against  the  trap,  or  wait  till  the  destroyers 
which  she  knew  the  Zeppelin  would  have  sig- 
nalled for,  should  come  out  to  finish  her,  still 


24 


entangled  as  they  would  suppose  in  the  net? 
It  was  a  simple  calculation  of  comparative 
speeds  and  positions,  and  when  it  was  worked 
out  she  decided  to  try  for  the  double  event. 
Within  a  few  minutes  of  the  time  she  had  al- 
lowed for  them,  she  heard  the  twitter  of  four 
destroyers'  screws  thrashing  above  her;  rose; 
got  her  shot  in;  saw  one  destroyer  crumple; 
hung  round  till  another  took  the  wreck  in  tow; 
said  goodby  to  the  spare  brace  (she  was  at  the 
end  of  her  supplies)  and  reached  the  rendez- 
vous in  time  to  save  her  friends! 

Tells  of  Two  "Nightmares. " 

And  since  we  are  dealing  in  nightmares, 
here  are  two  more — one  genuine,  the  other, 
mercifully,  false. 

There  was  a  British  submarine  not  only  at, 
but  in  the  mouth  of  a  river — well  home  in  Ger- 
man territory.  She  was  spotted  and  went  un- 
der, her  commander  perfectly  aware  that  there 
was  not  more  than  five  feet  of  water  over  her 
conning  tower,  so  that  even  a  torpedo  boat,  let 
alone  a  destroyer,  would  hit  if  she  came  over. 
But  nothing  hit. 

The  search  was  conducted  on  scientific  prin- 
ciples while  they  sat  on  the  silt  and  suffered. 
Then  the  commander  heard  the  rasp  of  a  wire 
trawl  sweeping  over  his  hull.  It  was  not  a  nice 
sound,  but  there  happened  to  be  a  couple  of 
gramophones  aboard  and  he  turned  them  both 
on  to  drown  it.  And  in  due  time  that  boat  got 
home  with  everybody's  hair  of  just  the  same 
color  as  when  they  had  started ! 

The  other  nightmare  arose  out  of  silence  and 
imagination.  A  boat  had  gone  to  bed  on  the 
bottom  in  a  spot  where  she  might  reasonably 
expect  to  be  looked  for,  but  it  was  a  convenient 
jumping  off,  or  up,  place  for  the  work  in  hand. 

About  that  bad  hour  of  2.30  A.  M.  the  com- 


25 


mander  was  waked  by  one  of  the  men  who 
whispered  to  him: 

"They've  got  the  chains  on  us,  sir !" 
Whether  it  was  pure  nightmare,  or  an  hallu- 
cination of  long  wakefulness,  or  something 
relaxing  or  releasing  in  that  packed  box  of 
machinery,  or  the  disgustful  reality,  the 
commander  could  not  tell,  but  it  had  all  the 
makings  of  panic  in  it.  So  the  Lord,  and  long 
training,  put  it  into  his  head  to  reply : 

"Have  they?  Well,  we  shan't  be  coming  up 
till  9  o'clock  this  morning.  We'll  see  about  it 
then.  Turn  out  that  light,  please." 

A  Refreshing  Sight. 

He  did  not  sleep,  but  the  dreamer  and  the 
others  did;  and  when  morning  came  and  he 
gave  the  order  to  rise,  she  rose  unhampered, 
and  the  commander  saw  the  gray  smeared  seas 
from  above  once  again.  He  said  it  was  a  very 
refreshing  sight. 

Lastly,  which  is  on  all  fours  with  the  gamble 
of  the  chase,  a  man  was  coming  home  rather 
bored  after  an  uneventful  trip. 

It  was  necessary  for  him  to  sit  on  the  bottom 
awhile,  and  there  he  played  patience. 

Of  a  sudden  it  struck  him,  as  a  vow  and  an 
omen,  that  if  he  worked  out  the  next  game  cor- 
rectly he  would  go  up  and  'strafe'  something. 
The  cards  fell  all  in  order.  He  went  up  and 
found  himself  alongside  a  German,  whom,  as 
he  had  promised  and  prophesied  to  himself,  he 
destroyed. 

She  was  a  mine-layer  and  needed  only  a  jar 
to  dissipate  like  a  cracked  electric  light  bulb. 
He  was  somewhat  impressed  by  the  contrast 
between  the  single-handed  game  fifty  feet  be- 
Jow,  the  ascent,  the  attack,  the  amazing  result, 
and  when  he  descended  again  his  cards  lay  just 
as  he  had  left  them. 


26 


The  Fringes  of  the  Fleet 


HE  ships  await  us  above 
And  ensnare  us  beneath. 

We  rise,  we  lie  down,  and  we 

move 
In  the  shadow  of  death. 


The  ships  have  a  thousand  eyes 
To  mark  where  we  come    .    . 

And  the  mirth  of  a  sea-port  dies 
When  our  blow  gets  home. 


27 


The  Tense    and   Anxious 

Moment  as  the  Torpedo 

Races  to  Its  Mark 

WAS  honored  by  a  glimpse  into  this 
veiled  life  by  a  boat  which  was 
merely  practising  between  trips. 

Submarines  are  like  cats.  They 
never  tell  whom  they  were  with  last 
night,  and  they  sleep  as  much  as 
they  can. 

If  you  board  a  submarine  off  duty  you  gen- 
erally see  a  perspective  of  foreshortened,  fat- 
tish  men  laid  all  along.  The  men  say  that  at 
certain  times  it  is  rather  an  easy  life,  with 
relaxed  regulations  about  smoking,  calculated 
to  make  a  man  put  on  flesh. 

One  requires  well  padded  nerves.  Many  of 
the  men  do  not  appear  on  deck  throughout 
the  whole  trip.  They  know  that  they  are  re- 
sponsible in  their  department  for  their  com- 
rades' lives  as  their  comrades  are  responsible 
for  theirs.  What's  the  use  of  flapping  about? 

The  Etiquette  of  Meeting  Mines. 

When  we  set  forth  there  had  been  some 
trouble  in  the  fairway  and  a  neutral  victim  of 
mines  lay  over  on  a  sandbank  nearby. 

"Suppose  there  are  more  mines  loose?"  I 
asked. 

"We'll  hope  there  aren't,"  was  the  soothing 
reply.  "Mines  are  all  Josh.  You  either  hit  'em 
or  you  don't.  And  if  you  do  they  don't  always 
go  off.  They  scrape  alongside." 

"What's  the  etiquette,  then?" 

"Shut  off  both  propellers  and  hope." 


28 


r 


We  were  dodging  various  crafts  down  the 
harbor  when  a  squadron  of  trawlers  came  out 
on  our  beam,  at  that  extravagant  rate  of  speed 
which  unlimited  government  coal  always  leads 
to.  They  were  headed  by  an  ugly,  upstanding, 
black-sided  buccaneer  with  twelve-pounders. 

"Ah  I  That's  the  king  of  the  trawlers.  Isn't 
he  carrying  dog,  too!  Give  him  room,"  one 
said. 

We  were  all  in  the  narrowed  harbor  mouth 
together. 

"There's  my  youngest  daughter.  Take  a 
look  at  her !"  someone  hummed  as  a  punctilious 
navy  cap  slid  by  on  a  very  near  bridge. 

"We'll  fall  in  behind  him.  They're  going 
over  to  the  neutral.  Then  they'll  sweep. 

"Bye  the  bye,  did  you  hear  about  one  of  the 
passengers  in  the  neutral  yesterday?  He  was 
taken  off,  of  course,  by  a  destroyer,  and  the 
only  thing  he  said  was  'Twenty-five  time  I  'ave 
insured,  but  not  this  time  .  .  .  'Ang  it.' ' 

The  trawlers  lunged  ahead  toward  the  for- 
lorn neutral.  Our  destroyer  nipped  past  us 
with  that  high-shouldered  terrier-like  pounc- 
ing action  of  the  newer  boats,  and  went  ahead. 
A  tramp  in  ballast,  her  propeller  half  out  of 
water,  threshed  along  through  the  sallow  haze. 

"Lord!  What  a  shot!"  someone  said,  en- 
viously. The  men  on  the  little  deck  looked 
across  at  the  slow-moving  silhouette.  One  of 
them,  a  cigarette  behind  his  ear,  smiled  at  a 
companion. 

How  It  Feels  to  Be  Submerged. 

Then  we  went  down — not  as  they  go  down 
when  they  are  pressed  (the  record,  I  believe,  is 
fifty  feet  in  fifty  seconds  from  top  to  bottom) , 
but  genteelly,  to  an  orchestra  of  appropriate 
sounds,  roarings,  and  blowings,  and  after  the 


29 


orders,  which  come  from  the  commander  alone, 
utter  silence  and  peace. 

"There's  the  bottom.  We  bumped  at  fifty — 
fifty-two!" 

"I  didn't  feel  it." 

"We'll  try  again.  Watch  the  gauge  and 
you'll  see  it  flick  a  little." 

It  may  have  been  so,  but  I  was  more  inter- 
ested in  the  faces,  and,  above  all  the  eyes,  all 
down  the  length  of  her.  It  was  to  them,  of 
course,  the  simplest  of  manoeuvres. 

They  dropped  into  gear  as  no  machine  could ; 
but  the  training  of  years  and  the  experience 
of  the  year  leaped  up  behind  those  steady  eyes 
under  the  electrics  in  the  shadow  of  the  tall 
motors,  between  the  pipes  and  the  curved  hull, 
or  glued  to  their  particular  gauges. 

One  forgot  the  bodies  altogether — but  one 
will  never  forget  the  eyes  or  the  ennobled  faces. 
One  man  I  remember  in  particular. 

On  deck  his  was  no  more  than  a  grave,  rath- 
er striking  countenance,  cast  in  the  unmistak- 
able petty  officer's  mould. 

Below,  as  I  saw  him  in  profile,  in  charge  of 
a  vital  control,  he  looked  like  a  Doge  of  Venice ; 
the  prior  of  some  hardly  ruled  monastic  order ; 
an  old-time  Pope— anything  that  signified 
trained  and  stored  intellectual  power  and  as- 
cetically  devoted  to  some  vast  impersonal  end. 
And  so  with  a  much  younger  man,  who 
changed  into  such  a  young  monk  as  Frank 
Dicksee  used  to  draw. 

Only  a  couple  of  torpedo  men,  not  being  gear 
for  the  moment,  read  an  illustrated  paper. 
Their  time  did  not  come  till  we  went  up  and  got 
to  business. 

"Commander  Gets  All  the  Joy  of  It." 

The  attack  and  everything  connected  with  it 
is  solely  the  commander's  affair.  He  is  the 


30 


onZy  owe  who  gets  any  fun  at  all — since  he  is 
the  eye,  the  brain  and  the  hand  of  the  whole — 
this  single  figure  at  the  periscope. 

The  second  in  command  heaves  sighs  and 
prays  that  the  dummy  (there  is  less  trouble 
about  the  real  ones)  will  go  off  all  right  or 
he'll  be  told  about  it.  The  others  wait  and  fol- 
low the  quick  run  of  orders. 

It  is,  if  not  a  convention,  a  fairly  established 
custom,  that  the  commander  shall  inferentially 
give  his  world  some  idea  of  what  is  going  on. 
At  least  I  only  heard  of  one  man  who  says 
nothing  whatever,  and  doesn't  even  wriggle 
his  shoulders  when  he  is  on  the  job.  The  others 
soliloquize  according  to  their  temperament,  and 
the  periscope  is  as  revealing  as  golf. 

Submarines  nowadays  are  expected  to  look 
out  for  themselves  more  than  at  the  old  prac- 
tices when  the  destroyers  walked  circumspectly. 

We  dived  and  circulated  under  water  for  a 
while  and  then  rose  for  a  sight — something 
like  this:  "Up  a  little— up !  Up  still!  Where 
the  deuce  has  he — Ah !"  (Half  a  dozen  orders 
as  to  helm  and  depth  or  descent,  and  a  pause 
broken  by  a  drumming  noise  somewhere  above 
which  increases  and  passes  away.) 

"That's  better!  Up  again!"  (This  refers  to 
the  periscope.) 

"Yes.  Ah!  No,  we  don't  think !  All  right! 
Keep  her  down!  damn  it!  Umm!  That  ought 
to  be  nineteen  knots.  .  .  .  Dirty  trick! 
He's  changing  speed.  No,  he  isn't.  He's  all 
right. 

"Ready  forward  there!"  (A  valve  sputters 
and  drips;  the  torpedo  men  crouch  over  their 
tubes  and  nod  to  themselves.  Their  faces  have 
changed  now.)  He  hasn't  spotted  us  yet.  We'll 
just — (more  helm  and  depth  orders,  but  spe- 
cially helm).  "Wish  we  were  working  a  beam 


31 


tube.  Ne'er  mind.  Up !  (A  last  string  of  or- 
ders.) Six  hundred.  He  doesn't  see  us! 
Fire!" 

The  Torpedo  on  Its  Way. 

The  dummy  left;  the  second  in  command 
cocked  one  ear  and  looked  relieved.  Up  we 
rose,  the  wet  air  and  spray  spattered  through 
the  hatch.  -The  destroyer  swung  off  to  retrieve 
the  dummy. 

"Careless  brutes,  destroyers  are,"  said  an 
officer.  "That  fellow  nearly  walked  over  us 
just  now.  Did  you  notice?" 

The  commander  was  playing  his  game  out 
over  again — stroke  by  stroke.  "With  a  beam 
tube  I'd  ha'  'strafed'  him  amidships,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

"Why  didn't  you  then?"  I  asked. 

There  were  several  excellent  reasons  which 
reminded  me  that  we  were  at  war  and  cleared 
for  action,  and  that  the  interlude  had  been 
merely  play.  A  companion  rose  alongside  and 
wanted  to  know  whether  we  had  seen  anything 
of  her  dummy. 

"No.  But  we  heard  it,"  was  the  short 
answer. 

I  was  rather  annoyed  because  I  had  seen 
that  particular  daughter  of  destruction  in  the 
stocks  only  a  short  time  ago  and  here  she  was 
grown  up  and  talking  about  her  missing  chil- 
dren! 

In  the  harbor  again,  one  found  more  of  them, 
all  patterns  and  makes  and  sizes,  with  rumors 
of  yet  more  and  larger  to  follow.  Naturally 
their  men  say  that  we  are  only  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  submarine.  We  shall  have  them 
presently  for  all  purposes. 

Now  here  is  the  mystery  of  the  service. 

A  man  gets  a  boat  which  for  two  years  be- 
comes his  very  self. 


32 


His  morning  hope,  his  evening  dream, 
His  joy  throughout  the  day. 

With  him  is  a  second  in  command,  a  cox,  an 
engineer  and  some  others.  They  prove  each 
other's  souls  habitually,  every  few  days,  by  the 
direct  test  of  peril,  till  they  act,  think  and  en- 
dure as  a  unit  in  and  with  the  boat. 

That  commander  is  transferred  to  another 
boat.  He  tries  to  take  with  him,  if  he  can, 
which  he  can't,  as  many  of  his  other  selves  as 
possible. 

Getting  Used  to  His  Submarine. 

He  pitches  into  a  new  type  twice  the  size  of 
the  old  one,  with  three  times  as  many  gadgets, 
an  unexplored  temperament  and  unknown 
leanings. 

After  his  first  trip  he  comes  back  clamoring 
for  the  head  of  her  constructor,  of  his  own  sec- 
ond in  command,  his  engineer,  his  cox,  and  a 
few  other  ratings. 

They  for  their  part  wish  him  dead  on  the 
beach,  because  last  commission  with  so  and  so, 
nothing  ever  went  wrong  anywhere. 

A  fortnight  later  you  can.  remind  the  com- 
mander of  what  he  said  and  he  will  smile  large, 
wide  navy  smiles.  She's  not,  he  says,  so  very 
bad — things  considered,  barring  her  five-ton 
torpedo  derricks,  the  abominations  of  her  wire- 
less, and  the  temperature  of  her  beer  lockers. 

All  of  which  signifies  that  the  new  boat  has 
found  her  soul,  and  her  commander  would  not 
change  her  for  battle  cruisers. 

Therefore,  that  he  may  remember  he  is  the 
service  and  not  a  branch  of  it,  he  is  after  cer- 
tain years  shifted  to  a  battle  cruiser,  where  he 
lives  in  a  blaze  of  admirals  and  aiguilettes,  re- 
sponsible for  vast  decks  and  cathedral-like  flats, 
a  student  of  extended  above-water  tactics, 


M> 


33 


thinking  in  tens  of  thousands  of  yards  instead 
of  his  modest  but  deadly  three  to  twelve  hun- 
dred. 

And  the  man  who  takes  his  place  straight- 
way forgets  that  he  ever  looked  down  on  great 
rollers  from  a  sixty-foot  bridge  under  the 
whole  breadth  of  Heaven,  but  crawls  and 
climbs  and  dives  down  conning  towers  with 
those  same  waves  wet  on  his  heels,  and  when 
the  cruisers  pass  him,  tearing  the  deep  open 
in  half  a  gale,  thanks  God  he  is  not  as  they  are 
and  goes  to  bed  beneath  their  distracted  keels. 
For  it  is  written : 

"How  in  all  time  of  our  distress 
And  in  our  triumph,  too, 

The  game  is  more  than  the  player  of  the  game 
And  the  ship  more  than  the  crew." 

"//  Is  a  Cold-Blooded  Business." 

r?ut  submarine  work  is  cold-blooded  busi- 
ness." ( This  was  at  a  little  conference  in  a  green 
curtained  "wardroom"  cum  owner's  cabin.) 

"Then  there's  no  truth  in  the  yarn  that  you 
can  feel  when  the  torpedo's  going  to  get 
home?"  I  asked. 

"Not  a  word.  You  see  it  get  home  or  miss, 
as  the  case  may  be.  Of  course,  it's  never  your 
fault  if  it  misses.  It's  all  your  second  in  com- 
mand." 

"That's  true,  too,"  said  the  second.  "I  catch 
it  all  round.  That's  what  I  am  here  for." 

"And  what  about  the  third  man?"  There 
was  one  aboard  at  the  time. 

"He  generally  comes  from  a  smaller  boat — 
to  pick  up  real  work  if  he  can  suppress  his  in- 
tellect and  doesn't  talk  'last  commission.' ' 

The  third  hand  promptly  denied  the  posses- 
sion of  any  intellect,  and  was  quite  dumb  about 
his  last  boat. 


34 


"And  the  men?" 

"They  train  on,  too.  They  train  each  other. 
Yes,  one  gets  to  know  'em  about  as  well  as  they 
get  to  know  us.  Up  topside  a  man  can  take  you 
in — take  himself  in — for  months,  for  half  the 
commission  perhaps.  Down  below  he  can't.  It's 
all  in  cold  blood — not  like  at  the  front,  where 
they  have  something  exciting  all  the  time." 

"Then  bumping  mines  isn't  exciting?" 

"Not  one  little  bit.  You  can  bump  at  'em. 
Even  with  a  Zepp." 

"Oh,  now  and  then,"  one  interrupted,  and 
they  laughed  as  they  explained. 


Submarine's  Encounter  with  a 

"Yes,  that  was  rather  funny.  One  of  our 
boats  came  up  slap  underneath  a  low  Zepp. 
Looked  for  the  sky,  you  know,  and  couldn't  see 
anything  except  this  fat  shining  belly  almost 
on  top  of  'em.  Luckily  it  wasn't  the  Zepp's 
stingin'  end. 

"So  she  went  to  windward  and  kept  just 
awash.  There  was  a  bit  of  a  sea  and  the  Zepp 
had  to  work  against  the  wind.  (They  don't 
like  that.)  Our  boat  sent  a  man  to  the  gun. 
He  was  pretty  well  drowned,  of  course,  but  he 
hung  on,  and  held  his  breath  and  got  in  shots 
where  he  could. 

"The  Zepp  was  'strafing'  bombs  about  for  all 
she  was  worth,  and — who  was  it? — Macart- 
ney, I  think,  was  shifting  and  heaving  at  the 
quickfirer  between  dives,  and,  naturally,  every- 
one wanted  to  look  at  the  performance,  so 
about  a  quarter  of  a  ton  of  water  flopped  down 
below  and — oh,  they  had  a  Charlie  Chaplin  time 
of  it! 

"Well,  .somehow  Macartney  managed  to  rip 
the  Zepp  a  bit  and  she  went  to  leeward  with  a 
list  on  her.  We  saw  her  a  fortnight  later  with 
a  patch  on  her  port  side.  Oh,  if  Fritz  only 


f  ought  clean  there  wouldn't  be  half  a  bad  show. 
But  Fritz  can't  fight  clean." 

"And  we  can't  do  what  he  does — even  if 
we're  allowed  to,"  one  said. 

"No,  we  can't  Tisn't  done.  That's  all.  We 
have  to  fish  Fritz  out  of  the  water,  and  we  dry 
him  and  dust  him  and  give  him  cocktails  and 
send  him  to  Donnington  Hall." 

"And  what  does  Fritz  do?" 

"He  sputters  and  clicks  and  bows.  He  has 
all  the  correct  motions,  you  know,  but,  of 
course,  when  he's  a  prisoner  you  can't  tell  him 
what  he  really  is." 

"And  do  you  suppose  Fritz  understands  any 
of  it?"  I  asked. 

"No.  Or  he  wouldn't  have  Lusitaniaed,  and 
then  he  wouldn't  have  been  Fritz.  This  war 
was  his  first  chance  of  making  his  name,  and 
he  chucked  it  all  away  for  the  sake  of  showin' 
off  as  a  silly  ass  of  a  Gottstrafer." 

And  then  they  talked  of  that  hour  of  the 
night  when  submarines  come  to  the  top  like 
mermaids  to  get  and  give  information ;  of  boats 
whose  business  it  is  to  fire  as  much  and  to 
splash  about  as  aggressively  as  possible;  and 
of  other  boats  who  avoid  any  sort  of  display — 
dumb  boats  watching  and  relieving  watch, 
with  their  periscopes  just  showing  like  a  croco- 
dile's eyes,  at  the  back  of  islands  and  the 
mouths  of  channels  where  something  may  some 
day  move  out  in  procession  to  its  doom. 


36 


The  Fringes  of  the  Fleet 


E  WELL  assured  that  on  our  side 
The  untroubled  Heavens  fight, 
Though  headlong  wind  and  heaping 

tide 
Make  us  their  sport  to-night. 

By  force  of  weather,  not  of  war, 

In  jeopardy  we  steer, 
Then  welcome  Fate's  discourtesy 
Whereby  it  shall  appear 

How  in  all  time  of  our  distress 

And  our  deliverance,  too, 
The  game  is  more  than  the  player 

of  the  game 
And  the  ship  is  more  than  the  crew. 

Be  well  assured,  though  wave  and  wind 

Have  mightier  blows  in  store, 
That  we  who  keep  the  watch  assigned 

Must  stand  to  it  the  more; 
And  as  our  streaming  bows  rebuke 

Each  billow's  balked  career 
Sing  welcome  Fate's  discourtesy 
Whereby  it  is  made  clear 

How  in  all  time  of  our  distress 

And  our  deliverance,  too, 
The  game  is  more  than  the  player 

of  the  game 
And  the  ship  is  more  than  the  crew. 


37 


X.. 


Be  well  assured,  though  in  our  power 

Is  nothing  left  to  give 
But  time  and  place  to  meet  the  hour 

And  leave  to  strive  to  live, 
Till  these  dissolve  our  order  holds, 

Our  Service  binds  us  here, 
Then  welcome  Fate's  discourtesy 
Whereby  it  is  made  clear 

How  in  all  time  of  our  distress 

And  in  our  triumph,  too, 
The  game  is  more  than  the  player 

of  the  game 
And  the  ship  is  more  than  the  crew. 


38 


Both   Sides   Play   Hide   and 
Seek  With  Sea  Bombs 

N  the  edge  of  the  North  Sea  sits  an 
admiral  in  charge  of  a  stretch  of 
coast  without  lights  or  marks, 
along  which  the  traffic  moves  much 
as  usual. 

In  front  of  him  there  is  nothing 
but  the  east  wind,  the  enemy  and 
some  few  of  our  ships. 

Behind  him  there  are  towns,  with  members 
of  Parliament  attached,  who  a  little  while  ago 
didn't  see  the  reason  for  certain  lighting  or- 
ders. When  a  Zeppelin  or  two  came,  they  saw ! 
Left  and  right  of  him  are  enormous  docks, 
with  vast,  crowded  sheds,  miles  of  stone-faced 
quay  edges,  loaded  with  all  manner  of  supplies 
and  crowded  with  mixed  shipping. 

In  this  exalted  world  one  met  staff  captains, 
staff  commanders,  staff  lieutenants  and  secre- 
taries, with  paymasters  so  senior  that  they 
almost  ranked  with  admirals. 

There  were  warrant  officers,  too,  who  long 
ago  gave  up  splashing  about  decks  barefoot, 
and  now  check  and  issue  stores  to  the  ravenous, 
untruthful  fleets. 

Said  one  of  these,  guarding  a  collection  of  de- 
sirable things,  to  a  cross  between  a  sick  bay 
attendant  and  a  junior  writer  (but  he  was 
really  an  expert  burglar) :  "No !  An*  you  can 
tell  Mr.  So-and-So  with  my  compliments  that 
the  storekeeper's  gone  away — right  away — 
with  the  key  of  these  stores  in  his  pocket.  Un- 
derstand me?  In  his  trousers  pocket." 


39 


CoastRank  With  " Lootenants." 

He  snorted  at  my  next  question. 

"Do  I  know  any  destroyer  lootenants?"  said 
he.  "This  coast's  rank  with  'em!  Destroyer- 
lootenants  are  born  stealing.  An'  what  they 
daren't  pinch  they  take  out  in  lyin'.  It's  a 
mercy  they're  too  biisy  to  practise  forgery,  or 
I'd  be  in  gaol.  Engineer-commanders?  Engi- 
neer-lootenants?  They're  worse 

"Look  here !  If  my  own  mother  was  to  come 
to  me  beggin'  brass  screws  for  her  coffin,  I'd — 
I'd  think  twice  before  I'd  oblige  the  old  lady. 
War's  war,  I  grant  you  that ;  but  what  I've  got 
to  deal  with  is  crime." 

I  referred  to  him  a  case  of  conscience  in 
which  everyone  concerned  acted  exactly  as  they 
should,  and  it  nearly  ended  in  murder. 

During  a  lengthy  action,  the  working  of  a 
gun  was  hampered  by  some  empty  cartridge 
cases  which  the  lieutenant  in  charge  made  signs 
(no  man  could  hear  his  neighbor  speak  just 
then)  should  be  hove  overboard.  Upon  which 
the  gunner  rushed  forward  and  made  other 
signs  that  they  were  "on  charge"  and  must  be 
tallied  and  accounted  for. 

He,  too,  was  trained  in  a  strict  school. 

Upon  which  the  lieutenant,  but  that  he  was 
busy,  would  have  killed  the  gunner  for  refus- 
ing orders  in  action. 

Afterwards  he  wanted  him  shot  by  court- 
martial.  But  everyone  was  voiceless  then,  and 
could  only  mouth  and  croak  at  each  other  till 
somebody  laughed  and  the  gunner  was  spared. 

"Well,  that's  what  you  might  fairly  call  a 
naval  crux,"  said  my  friend  among  the  stores. 
"The  lootenant  was  right.  Mustn't  refuse 
orders  in  action.  The  gunner  was  right. 
Empty  cases  are  on  charge.  No  one  ought  to 


40 


r 


chuck  'em  away  that  way,  but  .  .  .  Damn 
it,  they  were  all  of  'em  right!  It  ought  to  ha* 
been  a  marine.  Then  they  could  have  killed 
him  and  preserved  discipline  at  the  same  time." 

Keeps  Touch  With  Enemy. 

The  problem  of  this  coast  resolves  itself  into 
keeping  touch  with  the  enemy's  movements; 
in  preparing  matters  to  trap  and  hinder  him 
when  he  moves,  and  in  so  entertaining  him 
that  he  shall  not  have  time  to  draw  clear  be- 
fore a  blow  descends  on  him  from  another 
quarter. 

There  are  then  three  lines  of  defense:  the 
outer,  the  inner  and  the  home  waters.  The 
traffic  and  fishing  are  always  with  us. 

The  blackboard  idea  of  it  is  always  to  have 
stronger  forces  more  immediately  available 
everywhere  than  those  the  enemy  can  send. 
y  German  submarines  draw  a  English  destroy- 
ers. Then  x  calls  x  plus  a  to  deal  with  y,  who, 
in  turn,  calls  up  5,  a  scout,  and  possibly  a2, 
with  a  fair  chance  that  if  x  plus  y  plus  z  (a 
Zeppelin)  carry  on,  they  will  run  into  a2  plus  b 
plus  c — cruisers. 

At  this  point  the  equation  generally  stops; 
if  it  continued,  it  would  end  mathematically 
in  the  whole  of  the  German  fleet  coming  out. 
Then  another  factor,  which  we  call  the  Grand 
Fleet,  would  come  from  another  place. 

To  change  the  comparisons:  The  Grand 
Fleet  is  the  "strong  left"  ready  to  give  the 
knockout  blow  on  the  point  of  the  chin  when 
the  head  is  thrown  up.  The  other  fleets  and 
other  arrangements  threaten  the  enemy's  solar 
plexus  and  stomach.  Somewhere  in  relation  to 
the  Grand  Fleet  lies  the  "blockading"  cordon, 
which  examines  neutral  traffic. 

It  could  be  drawn  as  tight  as  a  Turkish  bow- 
string, but,  for  reasons  which  we  may  arrive 


41 


at  after  the  war,  it  does  not  seem  to  have 
so  drawn  up  to  date. 

Each  Side  Behind  Mines. 

The  enemy  lies  up  behind  his  mines,  and 
ours,  raids  our  coasts  when  he  sees  a  chance, 
and  kills  sea-going  civilians  at  sight  or  guess, 
with  intent  to  terrify. 

Most  sailor-men  are  mixed  up  with  a  woman 
or  two;  a  fair  percentage  of  them  have  seen 
men  drown.  They  realize  what  it  is  when 
women  go  down  choking  in  horrible  tangles 
and  heavings  of  draperies.  To  say  that  the 
enemy  has  cut  himself  from  the  fellowship  of 
all  who  use  the  seas  is  rather  understating  the 
case. 

As  a  man  observed,  thoughtfully : 

"You  can't  look  at  any  water  now  without 
seeing  Lusitania  sprawlin'  all  across  it.  And 
just  think  of  these  words,  'North  German 
Lloyd,'  'Hamburg-Amerika'  and  such  things  in 
the  time  to  come.  They  simply  mustn't  be." 

He  was  an  elderly  trawler,  respectable  as 
they  make  them,  who,  after  many  years  of  fish- 
ing, had  discovered  his  real  vocation. 

"I  never  thought  I'd  like  killin'  men,"  he  re- 
flected. "Never  seemed  to  be  any  o'  my  duty. 
But  it  is — and  I  do." 

A  great  deal  of  the  east  coast  work  concerns 
mine  fields — ours  and  the  enemy's — both  of 
which  shift  as  occasion  requires.  We  search 
for  and  root  out  the  enemy's  mines;  they  do 
the  like  by  us.  It  is  a  perpetual  game  of  find- 
ing, springing  and  laying  traps  on  the  least, 
as  well  as  the  most,  likely  courses  that  ships 
use — such  sea-snaring  and  wiring  as  the  world 
never  dreamed  of. 

We  are  hampered  in  this,  because  the  navy 
respects  neutrals,  and  spends  a  great  deal  of 
its  time  in  making  their  path  safe  for  them. 


42 


The  enemy  does  not.  He  blows  them  up,  be- 
cause that  cows  and  impresses  them,  and  so 
adds  to  his  prestige. 

How  to  Find  a  Mine  Field. 

The  easiest  way  of  finding  a  mine  field  is  to 
steam  into  it  on  the  edge  of  night  for  choice, 
with  a  steep  sea  running,  for  that  brings  the 
bows  down  like  a  chopper  on  the  detonating 
horns.  Some  boats  have  enjoyed  this  experi- 
ence and  still  live. 

There  was  one  destroyer  (and  there  may 
have  been  others  since)  who  came  through 
twenty-four  hours  of  highly  compressed  life. 
She  had  an  idea  that  there  was  a  mine  field 
somewhere  about,  and  left  her  companions  be- 
hind while  she  explored.  The  weather  was 
dead  calm  and  she  walked  delicately. 

She  saw  one  Scandinavian  steamer  blow  up 
a  couple  of  miles  away,  rescued  the  skipper  and 
some  hands;  saw  another  neutral,  which  she 
could  not  reach  till  all  was  over,  skied  in  an- 
other direction;  and,  between  her  life-saving 
efforts  and  her  natural  curiosity,  got  herself 
as  thoroughly  mixed  up  with  the  field  as  a 
camel  among  tent  ropes. 

A  destroyer's  bows  are  very  fine  and  her 
sides  are  very  straight.  This  causes  her  to 
cleave  the  wave  with  the  minimum  of  disturb- 
ance, and  this  boat  had  no  desire  to  cleave  any- 
thing else. 

None  the  less,  from  time  to  time,  she  heard 
a  mine  grate,  or  tinkle,  or — I  could  not  arrive 
at  the  precise  note  it  strikes,  but  they  say  it  is 
unpleasant — on  her  plates. 

Sometimes  she  would  be  free  of  them  for  a 
long  while,  and  began  to  hope  she  was  clear. 
At  other  times  they  were  numerous,  but  when 
at  last  she  seemed  to  have  worried  out  of  the 
danger  zone,  lieutenant  and  sub  together  left 


43 


the  bridge  for  a  cup  of  tea.  ("In  those  days 
we  took  mines  very  seriously,  you  know.") 

As  they  were  in  the  act  to  drink  they  heard 
the  hateful  sound  again  just  outside  the  room. 

Both  put  their  cups  down  with  extreme  care, 
little  fingers  extended  ("We  felt  as  if  they 
might  blow  up,  too"),  and  tiptoed  on  deck, 
where  they  met  the  foc'sle  also  on  tiptoe. 

Danger  Bumps  Away. 

They  pulled  themselves  together  and  asked 
severely  what  the  foc'sle  thought  it  was  doing. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  there's  another  of  those 
blighters  tap-tapping  alongside,  our  end." 

They  all  waited  and  listened  to  their  com- 
mon coffin  being  nailed  by  Death  himself. 
But  the  things  bumped  away.  At  this  point 
they  thought  it  only  decent  to  invite  the  res- 
cued skipper,  warm  and  blanketed  in  one  of 
their  bunks,  to  step  up  and  do  his  further  per- 
ishing in  the  open. 

'Wo,  thank  you,"  said  he.  "Last  time  I  was 
blown  up  in  my  bunk,  too.  That  was  all  right. 
So  I  think,  now  too,  I  stay  in  my  bunk  here. 
It  is  cold  upstairs." 

Somehow  or  other,  they  got  out  of  them 
after  all. 

"Yes,  we  used  to  take  mines  awfully  seri- 
ously in  those  days.  One  comfort  is,  Fritz'll 
take  them  seriously  when  he  comes  out.  Fritz 
don't  like  mines." 

"Who  does?"  I  wanted  to  know. 

"If  you'd  been  here  a  little  while  ago,  you'd 
seen  a  commander  comin*  in  with  a  big  'un 
slung  under  his  counter.  He  brought,  the 
beastly  thing  in  to  analyze.  The  rest  of  his 
squadron  followed  at  two  knots  intervals,  and 
everything  in  harbor  that  had  steam  up  scat- 
tered." 


44 


Presently  I  had  the  honor  to  meet  a  lieuten- 
ant-commander-admiral who  had  retired  from 
the  service,  but,  like  others,  had  turned  out 
again  at  the  first  clash  of  the  guns,  and  now 
commands — he  who  had  great  ships  erupting 
at  his  least  signal — a  squadron  of  trawlers  for 
the  protection  of  the  Dogger  Bank  Fleet! 

His  flagship  is  a  multi-millionaire's  private 
yacht.  In  her  mixture  of  stark,  carpetless,  cur- 
tainless,  carbolished  present,  with  her  volup- 
tuously curved,  broad-decked,  easy-stairwayed 
past,  she  might  be  Queen  Guinevere  in  the 
convent  at  Amesbury. 

And  the  lieutenant-commander,  most  care- 
ful to  pay  all  due  compliments  to  admirals  who 
were  midshipmen  when  he  was  a  commander, 
leads  a  congregation  of  very  hard  men,  indeed. 

They  do  precisely  what  he  tells  them  to,  and 
with  him  go  through  strange  experiences,  be- 
cause they  love  him  and  because  his  language 
is  volcanic  and  wonderful — what  you  might 
call  Popocatapocalyptic. 

I  saw  the  Old  Navy  making  ready  to  lead 
out  the  New  under  a  gray  sky  and  a  falling 
glass — the  wisdom  and  cunning  of  the  old  man, 
backed  up  by  the  passion  and  power  of  the 
younger  breed,  and  the  discipline  which  had 
been  his  soul  for  half  a  century,  binding  them 
all. 

"What'll  he  do  this  time?"  I  asked  of  one 
who  might  know. 

"He'll  cruise  between  Two  and  Three  East, 
but  if  you'll  tell  me  what  he  won't  do,  it  'ud  be 
more  to  the  point!  He's  mine-hunting,  I  ex- 
pect, just  now." 

Here  is  a  digression  suggested  by  the  sight 
of  a  man  I  had  known  in  other  scenes,  despatch- 
riding  round  a  fleet  in  a  patrol  launch.  There 
are  many  of  this  type,  yachtsmen  of  sorts  ac- 
customed to  take  chances,  who  do  not  hold 


master's  certificates  and  cannot  be  given  sea- 
going commands. 

Like  my  friend,  they  do  general  utility,  often 
in  their  own  boats.  This  is  a  waste  of  good 
material.  Nobody  wants  amateur  navigators, 
the  traffic  lanes  are  none  too  wide  as  it  is.  But 
these  gentlemen  ought  to  be  distributed  among 
the  Trawler  Fleet  as  strictly  combatant  of' 
fleers. 

A  trawler  skipper  may  be  an  excellent  sea- 
man, but  slow  with  submarine  shelling  and 
diving,  or  in  cutting  out  enemy's  trawlers. 

The  young  ones,  who  can  master  Q.-F.  work 
in  a  very  short  time,  would — though  there 
might  be  friction,  a  court-martial  or  two,  and 
probably  losses  at  first — pay  for  their  keep. 

Even  a  hundred  or  so  of  them,  more  or  less 
controlled  by  their  squadron  commanders, 
would  make  a  happy  beginning,  and  they  would 
all  be  extremely  grateful. 


46 


The  Fringes  of  the  Fleet 

VI 

WHERE  the  East  wind  is  brewed 
fresh  and  fresh  every  morning 
And  the  balmy  night  breezes 
blow  straight  from  the  Pole, 
I  heard  a  destroyer  sing: 

"What  an  enjoyable  life  does 
one  lead,  on  the  North  Sea  Patrol! 

"To  blow  things  to  bits  is  our  business  (and 

Fritz's) , 
Which  means  there  are  mine  fields  where- 

ever  you  stroll. 

Unless  you've  particular  wish  to  die  quick 
You'll  avoid  steering  close  to  the  North 
Sea  Patrol. 

"We   warn    from    disaster    the   mercantile 

master 

Who  takes  in  high  dudgeon  our  life-sav- 
ing role, 
For   everyone's   grousing   at    docking   and 

dowsing 

The  marks  and  the  lights  on  the  North 
Sea  Patrol." 

So  swept  but  surviving,  half  drowned  but 

still  driving, 
I  watched  her  head  out  through  the  swell 

off  the"  shoal, 
And  I  heard  her  propellers  roar :    "Write  to 

poor  fellers 

Who  stand  such  a  spell  as  the  North  Sea 
Patrol!" 


47 


The  Destroyers  Fight  Off  Air, 

Land  and  Submarine 

Attacks 


HE  great  basins  were  crammed 
with  craft  of  kinds  never  known 
before  on  any  navy  list. 

Some  were  as  they  were  born, 
others  had  been  converted,  and  a 
multitude  have  been  designed  for 
special  cases.     The  navy  prepares 
against  all  contingencies  by  land,  sea  and  air. 

It  was  a  relief  to  meet  a  batch  of  compre- 
hensible destroyers  and  to  drop  again  into  the 
little  mousetrap  wardrooms  which  are  as  large- 
hearted  as  all  our  oceans.  The  men  one  used 
to  know  as  destroyer  lieutenants  are  serious 
commanders  and  captains  to-day,  but  their 
sons,  lieutenants  in  command  and  lieutenant- 
commanders,  do  follow  them. 

The  sea  in  peace  is  a  hard  life;  war  only 
sketches  an  extra  line  or  two  round  the  young 
mouths.  The  routine  of  ships  always  ready  for 
action  is  so  part  of  the  blood  now  that  no  one 
notices  anything  except  the  absence  of  for- 
mality. 

Sailors  Now  Know  It  All. 

What  warrant  officers  used  to  say  at  length 
is  cut  down  to  a  grunt.  What  the  sailor-man 
did  not  know  and  expected  to  have  told  him 
does  not  exist.  He  has  done  it  all  too  often  at 
sea  and  ashore. 

I  watched  a  little  party  working  under  a 
leading  hand  at  a  job  which  eighteen  months 
ago  would  have  required  a  gunner  in  charge. 


48 


It  was  comic  to  see  his  orders  trying  to  over- 
take the  execution  of  them.  Ratings  coming 
aboard  carried  themselves  with  a,  to  me,  new 
swing — not  swank,  but  consciousness  of  ade- 
quacy. 

The  high,  dark  foc'sles,  which,  thank  good- 
ness, are  only  washed  twice  a  week,  received 
them  and  their  bags,  and  they  turned  to  on 
the  instant  as  a  man  picks  up  his  life  at  home. 
Like  the  submarine  crews,  they  come  to  be  a 
breed  apart— double-jointed,  with  brazen 
bowels  and  no  sort  of  nerves. 

It  is  the  same  in  the  engine  room,  when  the 
boats  come  in  for  their  regular  looking  over. 
Those  who  love  them,  which  you  would  never 
guess  from  the  language,  know  exactly  what 
they  need,  and  get  it  without  fuss. 

Everything  that  steams  has  her  individual 
peculiarity,  and  the  great  thing  is,  at  overhaul, 
to  keep  to  it  and  not  develop  a  new  one. 

Forecasts  Ship's  Movements. 

If,  for  example,  through  some  trick  of  her 
screws  not  synchronizing,  a  destroyer  always 
casts  to  port  when  she  goes  astern,  do  not  let 
any  zealous  soul  try  to  make  her  run  true,  or 
you  will  have  to  learn  her  helm  all  over  again. 
And  it  is  vital  that  you  should  know  exactly 
what  your  ship  is  going  to  do  five  seconds  be- 
fore she  does  it. 

Similarly  with  men.  If  anyone  from  lieu- 
tenant-commander to  stoker  changes  his  per- 
sonal trick  or  habit — even  the  manner  in  which 
he  clutches  his  chin  or  caresses  his  nose  at  a 
crisis — the  matter  must  be  carefully  considered 
in  this  world,  where  each  is  trustee  of  his 
neighbor's  life  and,  vastly  more  important,  the 
corporate  honor. 

"What  are  the  destroyers  doing  just  now?" 
I  asked. 


"Oh,  running  about,  much  the  same  as 
usual." 

The  navy  hasn't  the  least  objection  to  telling 
one  everything  that  it  is  doing.  Unfortunately, 
it  speaks  its  own  language,  which  is  incompre- 
hensible to  the  civilian.  But  you  will  find  it 
all  in  "The  Channel  Pilot"  and  "The  Riddle 
of  the  Sands." 

It  is  a  foul  coast,  hairy  with  currents  and 
ripe  and  mottled  with  shoals  and  rocks.  Prac- 
tically the  same  men  hold  on  here  in  the  same 
boats  with  much  the  same  crews  for  months 
and  months. 

A  most  senior  officer  told  me  that  they  were 
"good  boys" — on  reflection — "quite  good  boys," 
but  neither  he  nor  the  flags  on  the  chart  ex- 
plained how  they  managed  their  lightless,  un- 
marked navigation  through  black  night,  blind- 
ing rain  and  the  crazy,  rebounding  North  Sea 
gales.  They  themselves  ascribe  it  to  Joss  that 
they  have  not  piled  up  their  boats  a  hundred 
times. 

"Never  Know  Your  Luck." 

"I  expect  it  must  be  because  we're  always 
dodging  about  over  the  same  ground.  One  gets 
to  smell  it.  We've  bumped  pretty  hard,  of 
cr  'rse,  but  we  haven't  expended  much  up  to 
date.  You  never  know  your  luck  on  patrol, 
though." 

Personally,  though  they  have  been  true 
friends  to  me,  I  loathe  destroyers  and  all  the 
raw,  racking,  ricochetting  life  that  goes  with 
them — the  smell  of  the  wet  "lammies"  and 
damp  wardroom  cushions,  the  galley  chimney 
smoking  out  the  bridge,  the  obstacle-strewn 
deck  and  the  pervading  beastliness  of  oil,  grit 
and  greasy  iron. 

Even  at  moorings  they  shiver  and  sidle  like 
half -backed  horses.  At  sea  they  will  neither 


D. 


rise  up  and  fly  clear  like  the  hydroplanes,  nor 
dive  and  be  done  with  it  like  the  submarines, 
but  imitate  the  vices  of  both. 

A  scientist  of  the  lower  deck  describes  them 
as:  "Half  switchback,  half  water-chute,  and 
Hell  continuous!"  Their  only  merit  from  a 
landsman's  point  of  view  is  that  they  can  crum- 
ple themselves  up  from  stern  to  bridge  and 
(I  have  seen  it)  still  get  home.  But  one  does 
not  breathe  these  compliments  to  their  com- 
manders. 

Other  destroyers  may  be — they  will  point 
them  out  to  you — poisonous  bags  of  tricks,  but 
their  own  command — "Never!" 

"Is  she  high-bowed?" 

"That  is  the  only  type  which  overrides  the 
seas  instead  of  smothering." 

"Is  she  low?" 

"Low  bows  glide  through  the  water  where 
those  collier-nosed  brutes  smash  it  open." 

"Is  she  mucked  up  with  submarine  catch- 
ers?" 

"They  rather  improve  her  trim.  No  other 
boat  has  them." 

"Have  they  been  denied  to  her?" 

"Thank  heaven,  we  go  to  sea  without  a  fish- 
curing  plant  on  deck." 

"Does  she  roll,  even  for  her  class?" 

"She  is  drier  than  dreadnoughts." 

"Is  she  permanently  and  infernally  wet?" 

"Stiff,  sir,  stiff — the  first  requisite  of  a  gun 
platform." 

Thus  the  Caesars  and  their  fortunes  put 
out  to  sea  with  their  subs  and  their  sad-eyed 
engineers,  and  their  long-suffering  signallers 
(I  do  not  even  know  the  technical  name  of  the 
sin  which  causes  a  man  to  be  born  a  destroyer 
signaller  in  this  life),  and  the  little  yellow 
shells  stuck  all  about  where  they  can  be  easiest 
reached. 


The  rest  of  their  acts  is  written  for  the  in- 
formation of  the  Proper  Authorities.  It  reads 
like  a  page  of  Todhunter.  But  the  masters  of 
merchant  ships  could  tell  more  of  eyeless 
shapes,  barely  outlined  on  the  foam  of  their 
own  arrest,  who  shout  orders  through  the  thick 
gloom  alongside. 

The  strayed  and  anxious  neutral  knows  them 
when  their  searchlights  pin  him  across  the 
deep,  or  their  sirens  answer  the  last  howl  of  his 
before  steam  goes  out  of  his  torpedoed  boilers. 

They  stand  by  to  catch  and  soothe  him  in  his 
pajamas  at  the  gangway,  collect  his  scattered 
lifeboats,  and  see  a  warm  drink  into  him  before 
they  turn  to  hunt  the  slayer. 

The  drifters,  punching  and  reeling  up  and 
down  their  ten-mile  line  of  traps,  the  outer 
trawlers,  drawing  the  very  teeth  of  Death  with 
water-sodden  fingers,  are  grateful  for  their 
low,  guarded  signals;  and  when  the  Zeppelin's 
revealing  star-shell  cracks  darkness  open 
above  him,  the  answering  crack  of  the  invis- 
ible destroyers'  guns  comforts  the  busy  mine- 
layer. 

Big  cruisers  talk  to  them,  too;  and  what  is 
more,  they  talk  to  the  cruisers.  Sometimes 
they  draw  fire — pinkish  spurts  of  light — a  long 
way  off,  where  Fritz  is  trying  to  coax  them 
over  a  mine  field  he  has  just  laid ;  or  they  steal 
on  Fritz  in  the  midst  of  his  job,  and  the  horizon 
rings  with  barking,  which  the  inevitable  neu- 
tral, who  saw  it  all,  reports  as  "a  heavy  fleet 
action  in  the  North  Sea." 

Sea  Alive  After  Dark. 

The  sea  after  dark  can  be  as  alive  as  the 
woods  of  Summer  nights.  Everything  is  ex- 
actly where  you  don't  expect  it,  and  the  shyest 
creatures  are  the  farthest  away  from  their 
holes.  Things  boom  overhead  like  bitterns,  or 


scutter  alongside  like  hares,  or  arise,  dripping 
and  hissing,  from  below  like  otters. 

It  is  the  destroyers'  business  to  find  out  what 
their  business  may  be  through  all  the  long 
night,  and  to  help  or  hinder  accordingly.  Dawn 
sees  them  pitching  immensely  between  head 
seas,  or  hanging  forlornly  on  cross  seas  that 
sweep  like  scythes  from  one  forlorn  horizon  to 
the  other. 

A  homeward-bound  submarine  chooses  this 
hour  to  rise,  very  ostentatiously,  and  signals  by 
hand  to  a  lieutenant  in  command.  They  were 
the  same  term  at  Dartmouth  and  same  first 
ship. 

"What's  he  saying?  Secure  that  gun,  will 
you?  Can't  hear  oneself  speak."  The  gun  is 
a  bit  noisy  on  its  cone,  but  that  isn't  the  reason 
for  the  destroyer  lieutenant's  short  temper. 

"Says  he's  going  down,  sir,"  the  signaller 
replies.  What  the  submarine  had  spelt  out, 
and  everybody  knew  it,  was:  "Cannot  ap- 
prove of  this  extremely  unpleasant  weather. 
Am  going  to  bye-bye." 

"Well !"  snaps  the  lieutenant  to  his  signaller. 
"What  are  you  grinning  at?"  The  submarine 
has  hung  on  to  ask  if  the  destroyer  will  "kiss 
her  and  whisper  good  night." 

A  breaking  sea  smacks  her  tower  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  insult.  She  closes  like  an  oyster,  but 
— just  too  late.  Habet!  There  must  be  a  quar- 
ter of  a  ton  of  water  somewhere  below,  on  its 
way  to  the  ticklish  batteries. 

Got  'is  Little  Kiss. 

"What  a  wag!"  says  the  signaller  dreamily. 
"Well,  'e  can't  say  'e  didn't  get  'is  little  kiss." 

The  lieutenant  in  command  smiles.  The  sea 
is  a  beast,  but  a  just  beast. 

This  is  trivial  enough,  but  what  would  you 
have?  If  admirals  will  not  strike  the  proper 


b 


attitudes,  nor  lieutenants  emit  the  appropriate 
sentiments,  one  is  forced  back  on  the  truth, 
which  is  that  the  men  at  the  heart  of  great 
matters  in  our  Empire  are  mostly  of  an  even 
simplicity. 

From  the  advertising  point  of  view  they 
are  stupid,  but  the  breed  has  always  been 
stupid  in  this  department.  It  may  be  due,  as 
our  enemies  assert,  to  our  racial  snobbery,  or, 
as  others  hold,  a  certain  God-given  lack  of  im- 
agination which  saves  us  from  being  overcon- 
cerned  at  the  effects  of  our  appearances  on 
others.  Either  way,  it  deceives  the  enemies' 
people  more  than  any  calculated  lie. 

When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  though  the 
English  are  the  worst  paper-work  and  viva- 
voce  liars  in  the  world,  they  have  been  rigor- 
ously trained  since  early  youth  to  live  and  act 
lies,  for  the  comfort  of  the  society  in  which 
they  move,  and  so  for  their  own  comfort.  The 
result  in  this  war  is  interesting. 

It  is  no  lie  that  at  the  present  moment  we 
hold  all  the  seas  in  the  hollow  of  our  hands. 

For  that  reason  we  shuffle  over  them  shame- 
faced and  apologetic,  making  arrangements 
here  and  flagrant  compromises  there,  in  order 
to  give  substance  to  the  lie  that  we  have 
dropped  fortuitously  into  this  high  seat  and 
are  looking  round  the  world  for  some  one  to  re- 
sign it  to. 


Might  Have  Shortened  War. 

Nor  is  it  any  lie  that,  had  we  used  the 
Navy's  bare  fist  instead  of  its  gloved  hand  from 
the  beginning,  we  could  in  all  likelihood  have 
shortened  the  war.  That  being  so,  we  elected 
to  dab  and  peck  and  half  strangle  the  enemy,  to 
let  him  go  and  choke  him  again. 

It  is  no  lie  that  we  continue  on  our  inex- 
plicable path  animated,  we  will  try  to  believe 


54 


till  other  proof  is  given,  by  a  cloudy  idea  of 
allocating  or  mitigating  something  for  some- 
body— not  ourselves. 

[Here,  of  course,  is  where  our  racial  snob- 
bery comes  in,  which  makes  the  German  gibber. 
I  cannot  understand  why  he  does  not  accuse  us 
to  our  allies  of  having  secret  commercial  un- 
derstandings with  him!] 

For  that  reason  we  shall  finish  the  German 
eagle  as  the  merciful  lady  killed  the  chicken. 
It  took  her  the  whole  afternoon,  and  then,  you 
will  remember,  the  carcass  had  to  be  thrown 
away. 

Meantime,  there  is  a  large,  unlovely  water, 
inhabited  by  plain  men  in  severe  boats,  who 
endure  cold,  exposure,  wet,  and  monotony 
almost  as  heavy  as  their  responsibilities. 
Charge  them  with  heroism — but  that  needs 
heroism,  indeed! 

Accuse  them  of  patriotism,  they  become 
ribald.  Examine  into  the  records  of  the  mirac- 
ulous work  they  have  done  and  are  doing.  They 
will  assist  you,  but  with  perfect  sincerity  they 
will  make  as  light  of  the  valor  and  forethought 
shown  as  of  the  ends  they  have  gained  for 
mankind. 

The  Service  takes  all  work  for  granted.  It 
knew  long  ago  that  certain  things  would  have 
to  be  done,  and  it  did  its  best  to  be  ready  for 
them.  When  it  disappeared  over  the  skyline 
for  manoeuvres  it  was  practising — always  prac- 
tising; trying  its  men  and  stuff  and  throwing 
out  what  could  not  take  the  strain. 

Only  Few  Names  Changed. 

That  is  why  when  war  came  only  a  very  few 
names  had  to  be  changed,  and  those  chiefly  for 
the  sake  of  the  body,  not  the  spirit.  And  the 
Seniors  who  hold  the  key  to  our  plans  and  know 
what  will  be  done  if  things  happen,  and  what 


55 


links  wear  thin  in  the  many  chains,  they  are  of 
one  fibre  and  speech  with  the  Juniors  and  the 
lower  deck  and  all  the  rest  who  come  out  of  the 
undemonstrative  households  ashore. 

"Here  is,  the  situation  as  it  exists  now," 
say  the  Seniors.  "This  is  what  we  do  to  meet 
it.  Look  and  count  and  measure  and  judge  for 
yourself,  and  then  you  will  know." 

It  is  a  safe  offer.  The  civilian  only  sees  that 
the  sea  is  a  vast  place,  divided  between  valor 
and  chance.  He  only  knows  that  the  uttermost 
oceans  have  been  swept  clear,  and  the  trade- 
routes  purged,  one  by  one,  even  as  our  armies 
were  being  convoyed  along  them;  that  there 
was  no  island  or  key  left  unsearched  on  any 
waters  that  might  hide  an  enemy's  craft  be- 
tween the  Arctic  Circle  and  the  Horn. 

He  only  knows  that  less  than  a  day's  run 
to  the  eastward  of  where  he  stands,  the  enemy's 
fleets  have  been  held  for  a  year  and  three 
months,  in  order  that  civilization  may  go  about 
its  business  on  all  our  waters. 


56 


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